The Nyctalope and The Tower of Babel

by Jean de La Hire

  “OK, you can do it from here. The telephone here is, as you know, is completely integrated—special standard plus the radio and wireless, all the latest innovations needed.”

  “Good. We’ll be over around four.”

  “Great. I’m going to take a little trip to Spain to clear up something that’s been nagging me. See you later, Michel.”

  The Nyctalope made two quick phone calls. The first was to his chauffeur and to his mechanic, Vitto and Soca, who were with him at Le Bourget and had escaped the attack.

  “Hello, Vitto? Take the special car with Soca and go to Saint-Jean-du-Gard as soon as possible. I’ve been in touch with my friend who lives there and he’ll give us a hand in this affair. Bring him back quickly.”

  “Fine, Monsieur. If we drive in shifts through the night, Soca and I should be there tomorrow morning and back in Paris by evening.”

  “Great! Tonight I’m going to Madrid with the Zig. Stay in touch with me by radio because the situation might change fast and we have to be ready for any eventuality.”

  “Understood! We’ll prepare to leave right away. Until tomorrow, Monsieur.”

  Then he called to notify the airport at Villacoublay where he had set up an ultramodern hangar. His personal plane, the Zig, was kept there and the pilot and mechanic were ready to take off at any time he needed.

  The Zig was a six-seater, high-speed aircraft that could get him to Madrid at 140 mph. Léo would take turns at the commands with the pilot and leaving at 6 p.m. he would arrive by midnight. Then he could get in touch with the Spanish authorities first thing in the morning.

  Early in the afternoon he was told by one of the CID agents who was posted on the roof of the house that a convoy of military trucks had turned onto Rue Montbrun. A few minutes later Captain Gougeon, the company leader, introduced himself to organize the plan that he had in mind to defend the building. After a brief meeting the two men went their ways, the officer to give orders to his soldiers. The trucks parked along the sidewalk and a barrier was set up on both ends of the street, one at Rue Dumoncel, the other at Rue Bézout. Within minutes the whole block of Rue Montbrun was literally invaded by soldiers. The orders were clear. All traffic was banned except for residents who had to prove their identity and would be taken home by a soldier. The idea of bringing in field guns had been rejected in the end by the General Staff, given the risk of using such weapons in the middle of Paris. However, a heavy machine gun was set up on the roof to be used, if need be, as an anti-aircraft defense.

  Around 4 p.m., a continual roar was heard for the first time. The squadron sent by Dumesnil had arrived. From now on it would make regular flyovers around Rue Montbrun, ready to intercept any non-authorized aircraft.

  It was also around four that Dorlange and his wife arrived at Saint-Clair’s house, along with two soldiers who were on guard in front. They settled in to start their mission of protection and coordination.

  The Nyctalope was satisfied with the organized defense that brought together all the means at his disposal. So, he went to prepare for his departure.

  His Torpedo was parked in the courtyard, ready to go. He threw a couple of suitcases in the trunk and left Rue Montbrun for the Villacoublay airport.

  So far, I’ve been a victim. Now I have to find out the truth and do what needs to be done. Otherwise, my merciless enemy is going to kill my whole family and all my friends along with destroying all my work, he thought as the car sped through the barriers and headed out of Paris towards a theoretical revenge.

  CHAPTER VII

  The Enemy

  The train was barreling through the countryside. In the early morning, the passengers heading for the capital were starting to see the wheat fields. In a first class car on board the train coming from Marseille, two men in dark suits were sitting across from each other, looking at the landscape and talking.

  “I guess we’ll get in on time,” one of them glanced at his watch.

  “Yes. To get to Rue Montbrun we’d better take a taxi,” the other responded.

  When Michel Dorlange had contacted them the two agents from the Marseille CID office had jumped on the first train for Paris to join forces with the troops deployed around the house of their boss, the Nyctalope. They were both armed with large caliber Brownings hidden in a holster under their arm. Their trip went smoothly and the tension they had felt on leaving the Saint-Charles station gradually dwindled away. Now they were relaxed and thinking about ironing out the final details of their arrival in Paris.

  A strange person came down the corridor, glanced into the compartment and on seeing an empty seat entered. He was a big, fat man wearing a long coat that covered his whole body and a hat pulled down so that only the lower half of his face was visible. The most surprising aspect of this man was his enormous volume. The huge coat hid all his body but it was so big he must have been obese.

  He plopped down after nodding to the two travelers. He had to sit in the middle of the bench where there was no armrest because his body was so massive that it took up almost two full seats. The two men, not wanting the stranger to hear their conversation, stopped talking and looked out the window.

  After a few minutes of silence broken only by the sound of the rails, the man spoke up:

  “Hello, Messieurs. I’m going to Rue Montbrun in Paris. Do you know how I should get there from Gare de Lyon? I’m from the country and don’t know the capital very well.”

  The two men looked at each other, stunned. The newcomer could not have heard the conversation that his arrival had interrupted. Was it a simple coincidence?

  “Rue Montbrun, Rue Montbrun… Let’s see… Do you know that street, Richard?” one of them asked the other to get a little more time to find a good answer.

  His partner hesitated before saying:

  “No, I don’t it. Sorry, Monsieur.”

  “Oh well, I thought the Nyctalope lived there and that you were going to see him.”

  After this response, as unexpected as the previous question, Richard said:

  “You know Monsieur Saint-Clair?”

  “Yes, very well. We’re old friends and I’ve got an old debt to settle with him. But it doesn’t matter, it’ll soon be over. Accounts will soon be balanced. Today I’m just going to make a little down payment…”

  His menacing tone and the glare in his eyes, barely visible under the big, black hat, made the two men recoil and reach for their holsters. But before they could do anything the fat man was on them, too fast for someone so obese.

  His two hands grabbed the agents’ necks and lifted them out of their seats with extraordinary ease. Then he banged their heads together with terrible violence. In the hands of this monstrous individual the two men were nothing but puppets and they were knocked senseless, unable to react. The attacker narrowed his eyes and said:

  “Yes, today, two members of the CID are going to die.”

  And he smashed their heads together again and again into a bloody pulp and dropped them on the floor.

  The fat man stepped over the two corpses and opened the door leading outside the train. He stood there for a minute, watching the houses in the Parisian suburb roll by. When the train started to cross a short bridge over an empty road the man jumped. He leaped more than 30 feet and landed on his huge legs without hurting himself. Not far from where he landed a limousine was parked with a man at the wheel who looked prematurely aged and had a cruel smile on his face. His dark, mean eyes, deep-set under arching eyebrows, glared at the fat man.

  “So, how was the trip?” he asked ironically.

  “Very amusing. But the best is yet to come,” the fat man snickered.

  He climbed into the car and they sped off.

  CHAPTER VIII

  The Engineer

  The Nyctalope arrived in Madrid in good time, a little after midnight. He hurried through customs and spent the rest of the night in a big hotel.

  Early in the morning he got in touch with the Spanish authorities to get urgent a
uthorization to exhume a body. After the abdication of King Alfonso XIII, the Nyctalope had lost the main contacts he had used in Spain during the monarchy. The brand new Second Republic was still going through birth pangs. While waiting to elect a president of the Republic, the executive power lay in the hands of a Catholic liberal, the president of the provisional government, Niceto Alcala-Zamora.

  The Nyctalope knew practically no one in the new government. Nevertheless, the CID still had privilege in Spain, since the royalty had helped create the organization and it had not denounced the government that succeeded Alfonso XIII.

  Through the French embassy Saint-Clair got in touch with the Ministry of the Interior and made an appointment for the afternoon with the Chief of Staff. Thus he could explain his business.

  He wanted to get authorization to exhume the body of his old enemy, Maur Korridès, who had been known everywhere as “The Engineer.” He was a scientific genius whose inventions had revolutionized entire fields from mechanics to chemistry. Before the Great War, he had managed to isolate a new substance, heliose, an incredible fuel that allowed him to overcome gravity. Moreover, he had created extraordinary vehicles that could travel into the most hostile environments, from the depths of the ocean up to the rarest atmosphere, even into the ether that separates the worlds in space. Among his many inventions, he had built a helicopter: the description given by the witnesses of the machine that destroyed the mansion in Versailles had brought back the memory of Korridès.

  The Engineer and the Nyctalope had faced off for the last time in Spain, four years earlier. The Engineer and his wife, the Red Princess, were at the head of a revolutionary and terrorist organization, the Hashishin. The Nyctalope had captured its leaders and the organization was shut down. He had given Korridès and his lieutenants over to the Spanish authorities. Unfortunately, when he still had the Red Princess in custody, she was murdered by one of Saint-Clair’s allies. The Engineer was heartbroken and killed himself in his cell. Saint-Clair always regretted her death, which he had not wanted but which, despite himself, he was somewhat responsible for. Of course, the Red Princess had been a merciless enemy, ready to wipe out entire families, but still he had not wanted her dead when he captured her even though he knew that the Spanish authorities, to whom he was planning to turn her over, would probably have executed her like the other Hashishin leaders.

  Engineer Korridès had been buried in the cemetery of the Madrid prison. But the Nyctalope wanted to verify his death and now he wanted the necessary documents to exhume the body as soon as possible.

  He got to the Ministry on time and was surprised to be welcomed by the minister in person. He even had the opportunity to talk directly with the president of the provisional government, Alcala-Zamora. From the start of the meeting the Nyctalope was encouraged by the Spanish authorities. The republicans wanted to continue the good relations that the monarchy had kept up with France and as a result they were ready to help one of its most renowned citizens. The Minister got the authorization for him and scheduled the exhumation for the next day. The head of the provisional government had wanted to speak with him in person as a sign of good faith and to seal the Franco-Spanish friendship.

  The Nyctalope left the ministry quite satisfied. The permit for the exhumation would arrive in the evening. It was then that he contacted the members of the expedition in Africa to get news from them and tell them about the tragedy in Versailles.

  The night passed without any particular incident.

  The next morning, at the break of a beautiful sunny day, they started digging up Korridès’ grave in the Madrid prison cemetery.

  The most pessimistic fears of the Nyctalope were confirmed. The coffin was empty. Maur Korridès was back!

  CHAPTER IX

  Battle on the Lake

  The sun had risen over the Tower of Babel. The sky above the valley was still covered by heavy clouds but the light was bright. A white mist lay on the dark water of the lake, slowly rising over the tropical forest. After all the noises in the night, the forest was silent now.

  The explorers awoke one by one. While some of them cleaned themselves up, the others made coffee. Pierre was still distracted by the weird machine he had seen in the sky just before dawn. He kept hold of his rifle and was watching the lakeshore, waiting for all his companions to get ready so he could tell them about the strange sight.

  Hubert finished preparing breakfast while Pir and Bob were making the final checks on their mini-submarine that had to go in the water very soon.

  As he put down his weapon to head to the campfire Pierre gave one last look at the beach. And he saw something moving there. He looked more carefully and could make out ten people whose bare skin was striped with red and black, sneaking down the bank and in total silence putting a canoe in the water. Armed with spears, carrying long, oval shields and covered in geometric designs, all the men were short except for one whose height and light skin stood out from the others. From his authoritative air and gestures, he was obviously the chief. When they started paddling on the lake a second group of natives, identically equipped, came out of the forest and put another canoe in the water. The first boat was slicing through the water without a sound and coming quickly toward the tower. If nothing stopped them, they would reach the camp in a few minutes. Pierre cried out:

  “Alert! The natives are attacking!”

  He hid behind the short wall encircling the tower and prepared to fire. The others grabbed their rifles and joined him immediately.

  “It’s them and their giant white chief who attacked during our last expedition” shouted Hubert. “Let’s try to avoid a massacre. Just fire a little in front of them and they’ll understand that they’ll die if they come any closer.”

  Everyone agreed.

  “Ready? Fire!”

  A hail of bullets struck the water in front of the attackers. The surface of the lake started boiling and in the bow of the first boat the wood burst into a thousand splinters.

  The natives stopped rowing and looked hesitant to continue. None of them had been hit and they understood that their enemies had not missed by chance but had spared their lives. They remembered, moreover, that several of their brothers had perished in the last confrontation with these white men and they knew now by experience that the noisy weapons of their enemy had a devastating effect.

  The big white chief was thinking that the fact of being discovered before reaching the tower reduced their chance of victory considerably. He cursed the superstitions that dismayed his warriors: because of them they had refused to attack at night although their chances of success were much better. He would have to find another way to chase the whites off the taboo place, the House of the Gods. He had already faced them once and had managed to make them leave.

  Now he was especially worried about his men being slaughtered. He stood up straight in the front of the canoe and let loose a savage cry, giving directions with his arms, ordering a halt to the attack. The natives spun their boats around and rowed slowly away from the tower along the riverbank.

  Before coming up with a new plan of attack, the chief did not want to lose face and he started insulting the explorers and shaking his fist at them.

  “Looks like he’s challenging us,” said Hubert. “Too bad I can’t understand a word he’s saying.”

  In the meantime, Professor Noque was staring at the chief, straining to hear what the enemy was saying. He nodded his head and murmured:

  “Yes, it’s a little vague but there’s a connection coming from an old but common base. Hubert, I understand what he’s telling us, at least the gist of it.”

  “How’s that possible?”

  “In fact, it’s a language that vaguely resembles Hebrew. Of course it branched off long ago. Maybe it goes back to the time when the bas-reliefs in Mexico were written. Anyway, the pronunciation is completely different from modern Hebrew but thanks to my knowledge of ancient Semitic languages I can pick up a lot of what he’s saying. He’s calling u
s cowards because, he says, we’re hiding behind our deadly weapons and without them we’re nothing. He and his men will hunt down cowards like us, relentlessly, and the first chance they get they’ll strike us dead.”

  “Do you think you can talk to him and be understood?” Hubert asked.

  “I can try. What do you want me to say?”

  “Well, do you think they’ve got traditions similar to the ancient Hebrews?”

  “That’s hard to say. The Bible tells us that the peoples who lived before the Flood, the forefathers of this tribe here, had customs like the Hebrews, although very corrupted. And let’s not forget that we might be dealing with an anachronism. Personally, I think there might be a cultural relation, but I can’t say for sure with so little information.”

  After thinking about it for a minute Hubert stated firmly:

  “In that case, we have to take the risk. Tell him that I challenge him to individual combat. If he wins, we’ll leave the tower. If he loses, that means that God or the gods are on our side and they’ll let us stay in the valley. Then it’ll be him and his men who have to leave.”

  “And what makes you think he’ll accept?”

  “David and Goliath!”

  “Hmm, OK, we can give it a try.”

  In a loud and halting voice the professor launched into a speech that sounded a lot like the language used by the great white chief. His companions could obviously not understand what he was saying in this ancient tongue, but at his first words the natives froze and stared at the tower in disbelief. Even more surprised was the chief who could not understand how these strangers knew their language, even if they spoke it with a strong accent and made many mistakes.

  The professor’s speech was as follows: